


King Solomon

by wraith17



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Twissy if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 17:22:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5710768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraith17/pseuds/wraith17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can't cut soup in half... Filling a prompt "We’re both sick and we both grabbed for the last can of soup at the store au"</p>
            </blockquote>





	King Solomon

Bundled up like a potential star of ‘Ultimate Survival Alaska’ and not a resident of London, John Smith sniffles and snuffles his way into his local corner store, making a slow and sickly paced bee line for the soup isle. To his slowly occurring horror John sees there is but one can of treasured chicken soup left on the shelves, just as he reached out to retrieve it he is blocked by a smaller, red nailed hand reaching out for the same can of soup. Their fingers brush together and both of them startle out of their determined mind sets to look at each other in wide eyed surprise. She’s dressed up just like him, bright blue eyes puffy, nose running and cheeks an unhealthy shade of red. She must be sick and worst of all she wants his soup.

“Don’t even think about it beanstalk. That soup is mine.” The small brunette croaks out before coughing delicately into her fist. Her hair is a tangled mess under her beanie, loose tendrils trailing around her throat and collarbone.

“I was here first, I need it. I’m sick.” John growls out, his throat tickling uncomfortably.

“Like hell you were!”

“Oi!” They both turn to regard the man behind the register. “Who grabbed it first?”

“How the hell should I know? Cut it in half for all I care.” He returns to his magazine, leaving John and the small woman to eye each other and the can.

“We could do that, in a manner of speaking.” She says softly.

John raises an eyebrow sceptically. “Don't be daft, you can't cut soup in half...could we?”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Yes, we can, beanstalk. Come back to my place, it’s just around the corner. After we have the soup you can go.”

“Alright, sounds fair.”

John takes the soup to the counter, opening his fist and depositing half the money for the soup, the woman placing down her share and they both walk out with the soup.

Once outside they both shiver and pull their coats tighter around their frames, the woman linking her arm with his and tugging him down the street, turns out she lives in the same apartment complex, just in the other tower.

“I’m 12B.”

At her raised eyebrow he continues, fishing his key out of one of his cavernous pockets.

“Oh, I’m in 8C. Come on then, if you try anything I at least know where you live. Half that soup is mine.” She says with finality, deftly plucking her own key out of her pocket as they ride the lift up to her floor.

Once inside her apartment, the woman shucks her thick outerwear, hanging it all up on a coatrack and mussing up her long dark curls even further. She crosses back over to him and takes the little plastic bag holding the tin, walking into her kitchen and presumably getting the soup ready based on the banging noises.

Following the woman’s example John removes his own coat, scarf and beanie, going into the kitchen after her, watching as she tucks some hair behind her ear and stirs the soup. “I, uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Missy.” Her nose wrinkles in annoyance for a moment. “Mother always said it’s childish but I like it better than Marisabel. Daft woman must have been high when she thought of that awful name.” She says with a pout and then a grin. “Tell me your name beanstalk, it’s only proper right? You are standing here in my kitchen, what will the neighbours think?”

“John, John Smith.” He says with a small croak that has nothing to do with his itchy throat and everything to do with this interesting and, honestly, odd woman.

She smiles at him. “Our parents didn’t have a care did they?”

“I’d say not.” He replies, scrubbing at his dripping nose with a tissue and stuffs it back in her pocket.

“Would you mind toasting the croutons? I always like my soup with croutons.”

The toasted croutons are placed in the soup, and equal portion placed in two bowls, the pair of them sitting down on Missy’s couch, watching reruns and eating with companionable small talk. Their eyelids grow droopy as the warm soup does its job, the soft noises emanating from the television have them nestling back into the cushions. Missy yawns quietly, her small hand coming up to cover her mouth as she rests her head against John’s shoulder. Even if he minded John is in no position to complain as he is falling asleep too, his body curls against Missy’s seeking her warm even through the fever they both have. Missy’s little hands come up to cling to him through his jumper, her head tucking under his chin while his fingers spear through her soft and thick curls.

“Hmm, I should keep you on a leash, John. Feels so nice.” Missy slurs and falls slack against him, her mouth hanging open as she sleeps.

John tucks her hair back from her face, nuzzling against her fluffed up hair and falls asleep with this odd creature on her couch, happy to sleep off the soup in her arms.


End file.
